Today 4 U: Roger's View
by streco
Summary: Written by me and my cuz. Roger's humored thoughts throughout... you guessed it... Today 4 U. Includes the hot plate lord, Mark's mom's matching undies gift!, and the wonderful word of persnickity :D


1_**Today 4 U: Roger's View**_

Well, we're back...again! And this time, it's a song in which Roger DOESN'T sing!! Shall be good fun. (Sara is joining me once again on this one.)

After this, we've decided that we're going to do "Rent: Roger's Retelling" (okay, maybe it didn't _RHYME_, but it's a nifty alliteration!) So, yeah. Whatever.

ALSO, we're going to start something called "The Roger Experience"... kind of self explanatory, it's all about Roger's craziest moments. So far, for ideas of chapters, we have "Spider-Roger," when Roger talks about his dream to be spider man and flies across the room, pretending that Mark is Mary Jane after forcing him into a wig.

"Matching Undies," explained a bit in this story, talking about how Mark's mom sends them matching undies each year for Christmas.

"Roger Tries to Take Over the World," he and Mark have a little spat about him striking a girl named Dawn. Looong story... all will be revealed in "The Roger Files"

"The Pants"—Roger gets a pair of pants and REALLY likes them, and then decides that they're way too tight. Mark finally tells him he was wearing women's pants. "No one was going to tell me that I was wearing women's _pants?_" "Dude, you couldn't tell by the butterfly on the pocket, or how it said Mary-Kate and Ashley on the tag?"

"The Fish"—Roger gets a fish and then... well, he has _way _too much fun.

And then... "Musical Freckles" which I really don't feel like getting into right now, XD

Warning: Roger calls Angel "it." I apologize if this offends you, it is by no means how we think of her. As far as we're concerned, she's a girl, unless not in drag. –shoves Roger– inconsiderate prick!

— —

"_SPEEEAAAAAAAK._"

I grinned with a giddy glee as I realized that we had power once again. The night had been a dark time—and this morning I couldn't blow dry/straighten my hair. 'Twas very depressing. "We got power!" I announced stupidly, but Mark seemed not to care, more so happy that he didn't have to stand around me with a mirror, as I hadn't taken my daily shower.

"_Oh!_" he cried gayly, _way _too excited about this small fact of life. "Merry Christmas!"

Yeah. Merry Christmas—no _presents_, no _candy_, no smiley _gingerbread cookies_, no small fluffy _dogs _jumping out of _stockings_... yeah, this was going to be a great Christmas, I mused.

Then, Mark's persnickety (AHAHA!) mother came through the answering machine, chipper and happy as ever. Oh, good ol' Mrs. Cohen. When I was five, she bought me underwear for Christmas. Haven't taken them off since.

Haha, _just _kidding. I make her buy me a new pair every Christmas. So, yes, I do change my underwear from year to year, just like _eeeeverybody _else. "Mark, honey, are you there? Are you screening your calls? It's mom." Yes, he's here, and _yes_, we've been screening our calls for _how _long? "Just wanted to call and say we love you, we'll miss you today. Oh, Cindy and the kids are here—they send their love." Yeah right. Those demon childs... children...homo sapiens... things. "Oh, and I hope you like the hotplate! Just don't leave it on when you leave the house."

Too late. We'd already practically burned Mark's eyelashes off, and _I _almost lost a leg, and the fire had eaten a stack of _VERY _important deeds to the loft—oh, wait, no, not that important... and we don't even own the place. It was Benny's old crap that we _gladly _sacrificed to the gods of the hot plate by allowing it to devour the papers with it's all-powerful heatedness. But that's also a story for another time.

There was a loud, obnoxious noise, and then I realized it was Mark's dad. "Oh, here's Dad," she said. His dad, however, didn't like either of us, and so he bought us both a big wad of nothing each year, all we got was the matching undies that Mark's mom gets us, and the wonderful hotplate that has decided to rule our lives. And make us coffee.

"Listen, Mark, we're all sorry to hear that Maureen dumped you." Hehehe. I snickered at the very thought. She had slammed the door in his face, causing him to break his nose, and he had to wear this very attractive cast thing for like a week, and I just taunted him, and poked it sometimes. It varied, whether I was in a taunting or a poking mood, really. "I say, _c'est la vie_. Let her be a lesbian!"

I broke out into a fit of giggles, nearly choking and dying on my stupid coffee from the wonderful hot plate gods. Mark glared at me, but I was laughed anyway. It was fun to make him feel stupid.

"Happy holidays." And _another _thing! Wasn't Mark a Jew? Since _when _did they call and wish us merry _Christmas? _No, just kidding, he's a... Jewstian. Christewish. One of those suckers who fell for all that Christmahanaquanzaka crap. I know the real truth, however. The hot plate is our god.

"You know," Mark began, and I was going to say _No! I don't know! _and run away childishly, but then he cut me off, mid-breath, with, "there are times when we're dirt broke, and hungry, and frozen, and I think to myself, 'Why the hell am I still living here?'" Because you _looooove _me, Mark! That's why! "And then _they _call. And I remember."

Oh. Well that certainly put a damper on my day.

We sat there for a while, Mark in some sort of jumper, and me in my _awesome _pant slash sweatshirt combo, and then I noticed something peculiar... _writing _on the _window! _Egad! I sprang up from my seat and ran over to the window. "What's that?" Mark asked.

"The girl downstairs." Stupid Roger, no it's not! It's writing _from _the girl downstairs.

"You mean the—" he paused for a millisecond, "'dancer' from the Cat Scratch club?" he asked me. He looked so much very jealous. Yes. That much. I nodded to answer him and he looked appalled—well of _course _hot stripper chicks want me. I'm _Roger_ for Christ's sake. "Oh, well, you _are _going, aren't you?"

I shook my head. "Naw." Because that violates law #12465 of the Roger Code, as decreed by the hot plate of godliness. Roger cannot leave the house under _any _circumstances, unless said house is burning down. _Unless _it's burning down because of the hot plate, then we must stay around and perform rituals. It's a long story. Me and Mark got _drunk _the other day... the hot plate _said_ some things... we signed some _contracts_... and then all of a sudden, it's our lord.

"Oh, come on, Roger!" Like he wanted me to go and bang this chick so I'd finally leave the house, either that or bring her home so _he _could bang the chick and get out of the house.

"Mhhmrryy Christmhhs, bhhitchhehs!"

_WHAT? _I turned and booked it to my room so I could duck in cover because I thought someone was dropping a bomb. But then there was some hugging going on, and Mark said something that was kinda _funny, _and Collins was in pain, and I settled and just kinda hung around, studying the scene before me.

"Oh, hi!" Lame. That was _so _lame. SOOO very lame, the hot plate god would be disgraced.

"'Oh, hi!'" Collins made _fun _of me. _Me! _I scowled. It was _not _cool. _So _not cool. "After seven months?" Oh, really? Wow. Long time no see.

"I'm sorry," I apologized and we hug, awwwh. Reunited. And then he ran across the room and picked up this really big scary bag—I thought there might be deli products in it, which _includes _bologna, stupid lunch meat that can't even spell it's own name right... Oscar Meyer, you _suuuck!_

"This boy could use..." I closed my eyes as he pulled out the object, "some Stoli!"

Oh, okay, vodka was fine. As long as it wasn't any scary bologna that could possibly be lethal. Or something. "This is a complete Christmas feast, thank you!" Not really. But that was okay, I could agree with Mark. I pulled a cup out of the stack grandly.

"You struck _gold _at MIT!"

"No." He shook his head. "They expelled me for my theory of actual reality. One for you..." he poured me a great big cup of Stoli, alcoholic goodness. My second god—who says I can't be polytheistic? I didn't oblige when the vodka reached the rim of the plastic cup. "One for you..." Mark, however, did; apparently he has a problem with getting drunk before noon.

"So I came back home. Merry Christmas." We all clinked—well, not really, they were plastic, so we basically flopped them together—our cups together. I was starting to hear music... _not _a good rhyming time for me... not in the morning when my bearings are all over the place... I'm just warning you...

"Oh, I got a teaching gig at NYU," he announced.

"Oh, so _that's _how you can afford to _splurge _on us," he said, using his favorite word—splurge. I bet if he didn't have a cup in his hands, he would've flicked them forward, showing his nails in a very gay fashion. I'm starting to doubt Mark's sexuality. I mean, he _was _dating a lesbian.

And then _splurge_. _What _in God's _name _does _that _mean? What does _meeeeaaan_, Mark? Mark, what does that _meeeeaaaaan? _

"No." Then he picked up the cups and pushed everything off the table, as if we didn't need it anymore. Sure. Go for it, Collins. "Sit down."

So I chose my most favoritest chair and cuddled up into a little ball of wonder. "Gentlemen, our benefactor on this Christmas Day—who's charity is only matched by talent, I must say," Yes, Collins was rhyming instead of me! I was sort of waiting for him to break out into a rap of some kind, because he's such a big black guy. Be like, "It's Christmas up in here, _what, what?_" To which me and Mark would respond, "_What, what?_" and it would be quite the party.

"A new member of the Alphabet City avant-garde—Angel Dumott Schunard!"

Angel? Who names their daughter—

Woah. That was _not _a daughter. It was a cross-dresser with money! A person with _money_ who was _near _me—close enough that I could mug them! But instead of me having to resort to these odd ways, she... he... it? It. It stepped forward and said, "Today for you, to_morrow _for me!" and started boogieing on over to me. I itched nervously, afraid that it would hurt me.

"To_day _for you," it whipped out some money and put it in my hands, and my eyes widened. I don't think I've ever seen that much money at once before! "Tomorrow for me!" it did the same to Mark.

"And you should hear her beat," Collins told us, and Angel did a few strums on her... leg?

Mark decided to hop on the rhyming train with, "You earned this on the _street?_" How did he infer this? The hot plate must've told him that Angel drummed on the street. Or something.

Anyhoo. "It was my lucky day today, on Avenue A," and this is where I spaced out. I pretended to be listening intently while I studied Mark. Every other time I looked over there, his cup was gone. Or was I just imagining things.

NO! See? There we go, it's gone again! What is this? Disappearing cup? Oh, Lordie, I was starting to get creeped out.

And look at how much Collins was enjoying himself, watching him... her... it... her... him... it... dance around in pretty little frou-frou dresses and heels that weren't good for much except throwing at people.

My attention was drawn to the cross-dresser when it jumped on top of the table and began to drum crazily on the pipes. Um, okay, I was getting ready to sue, because if one of them broke, we were basically screwed. Mark didn't look very nervous, so I let it pass.

WOAH! I didn't know cross-dressers in heels could do back-flips! "Back on the street, where I met my sweet, where he was moaning and groaning on the cold concrete." Collins looked at me and shook his head, _no, no way man, I was _not _moaning and groaning on the concrete, which was not cold. _I laughed at him. _Silly Collins._

I spaced out again, and then Collins spun her around and she ended the song. "FOR ME!" and we applauded. Then the phone rang and I made myself very comfortable.

"_SPEEEAAAAAAAK._"

I giggled. What a silly message we have.

"Mark. Hi. It's Maureen. Uhm... I hired Joanne as my production manager... but... I don't think she knows what the hell she's doing. If you could just come over to the performance space, babe, and—"

Ahaha. Maureen. Mark picked up the phone. "Hiiii, Maureen." Suddenly, Collins caught my attention and pointed to the window that Mimi had _stupified _and I shook my head no. Of course I wasn't going. There was no way! Especially not with law #12465.

Mark spoke with Mo for a small time before hanging up. "Can you be_lieve _her? First she just... dumps me..."

"Oooh." Collins winced in sympathy. Buuuurn, Mark, buuuuuuuuuurn. "Maureen dumped you?"

"Yes, she dumped me, for a lawyer named _Joanne._"

"Oh," he started chuckling a bit. I laughed as well, even though I've heard this saying so many times. Mark glared at me evilly.

"And now she wants me to come fix her equipment!"

"Well, Mark, you could've said no," Collins pointed out, and I agreed with him... in my mind of course, with my telepathic ability.

"Yeah... but..."

_Yeah... but...?_ "Aww, that's cute, you still love her!"

Angel stood up and put its arm around Collins... and then said something in Spanish. I, however, am not fluent in Spanish, so I asked the hot plate gods, to which they did not respond. I was quite sad. "Honey, we have to go," Angel added. _Honey? _Hoo boy. Craaaaaazy stalker cross-dresser.

"Oh, that's right, we got this gatherin' to go to, G, you wanna go?"

Well, since he called me G, I considered. "Where?" I asked, sulking. I was aware that my double chin had been busted out.

"Life Support," Collins answered.

"On _Christmas?_"

"Some people don't have anywhere else to go," Angel told me.

For a moment I sat there and cursed the gods of Life Support, _and _everyone else, because the world sucks. "Knock yourselves out," I told them, and Collins did this odd _shake your head at Roger! _thing, which made me feel bad. Sort of. Whatever. The world sucks.

"You too, Mark, it's not just for people with AIDS, okay?" Oh yeah. Collins has AIDS. Forgot about that... and I guess Angel does as well. Shweet.

"Okay, but... first, I've got a protest to save."

"See?" Collins asked me, "Told you." And he made the best whip impersonation that I've ever heard, ever. I grinned. "Well, it's Christmas," _NOO! _Really? "Don't stay in the house all day." Don't stay in the _house _all day? What was I supposed to gather from _that? _Does he think I'm a hermit?

I watched as Angel skipped away merrily, and thought many things to myself. The major one being confusion... okay, didn't know guys were into dressing up like Santa-women and dancing on tables and stuff.

So as I sat there contemplating my future of couch potatoisity and superhero responsibilities, one thing struck me.

Waaaaaaaaaaait a minute. Does that mean Collins is gay?

**A/N:** Torturing Roger is our calling. XD

Look out for...

"Rent: Roger's Retelling." ("Okayyyy... now Mark is dancing... kind of freaking me out...")

"The Roger Experience" ("We strike _Dawn!_" "...don't you mean we strike _at _dawn?")

and...

"La Vie Boheme: Roger's End" This story will be a three-shot from La Vie Boheme A ("Mi..." I hyperventilated. "Mi..." Where was this _MUSIC _coming from!), I Should Tell You (Stinging and older, sleeping on pins? What are we _talking _about? If this is what love's all about... I don't think I want any.) La Vie Boheme B (I can't dance, so I decided to wing it and started doing some odd jumping jack type dance move, it's officially called "The Roger." Trademarked and everything.)

(Yes, that's right guys, that means the other story I'm doing, Christmas Day Roger's Way, is officially only going to be from Will I? Through the Protest. XD Me and Sara are gonna cover LVB-LVBb)

--Steph and Sara


End file.
